Quite the Beating
by Frankie McStein
Summary: Ray made a mistake. Just one. But someone else is going to pay the price. Shameless Jackson whump.
NOTES-

Teen and up rating is for the violence, nothing more. Not even language (no potty mouths here) As always, if graphic violence is an issue for you, don't read this. (There's a brief mention of drugged behaviour too, its painkillers not recreational and its of a humorous vein but still. Mild trigger warning I guess?)

Based on Abe's story of the poachers who thought Jackson was to blame for Ray's sabotage. The exact line-

"They laid quite the beating on Jackson. Might have killed him if I hadn't arrived."

Well, how was I supposed to resist that?

If there hadn't been so much at stake, Ray might have felt guilty for duping the two men running the Kituko safari company. Some of the other safari guides he'd been out with had seemed superficially polite, interested in taking tourists' money but not caring about the service provided. Jackson and Abe seemed to be genuinely nice, to really care about the people they were taking out on safari, to do their best to make sure their guests enjoyed the experience.

But Ray had learned the hard way that letting his emotions for people get in the way of his determination led to nothing but failure. And besides, he barely even knew the guys. For all he knew, they were just damn good actors. So, instead of finding another safari group or even taking out a truck on his own, Ray decided to stick to his original plan: use the safari to spy out the land the poachers were operating on, take plenty of pictures, plan an attack. All nice and uncomplicated.  
Then Jackson's voice broke into Ray's thoughts. "Back again?" Jackson was smiling as he spoke, even though there was some confusion on his face. "You know we just have the one trail, right? You probably won't see anything new on a second trip out."

"Yeah, that's cool. I enjoyed the uh, the ambience." Ray grinned as the confusion left Jackson's face and the man's smile grew bigger.

"Well, if you're willing to pay for our ambience, we are only too happy to provide it." He dug about in a drawer and presented the standard waiver documents. "Here you go. We're here for the night, and we leave at dawn tomorrow."

Ray smiled his thanks and reached over for a pen, ignoring the voice in his head that was telling him that he and Jackson could be really good friends if it weren't for the poachers and the threat they were posing to the rhinos. "So, tell me," he started, focusing on the papers, hoping to play it off as casual, "do you have many run-ins with hunters or poachers?"

Jackson was already looking at something on his laptop and answered in an almost distracted manner. "Safaris tend not to 'run in' to poachers, since they operate in the shadows, although we do sometimes come across the mess they leave behind. Hunters cut across our trail sometimes. They try not to though; most of the guides around here know better than to bring their clients into the areas we drive through."

"Oh?" Ray let himself look up and let the surprise he was feeling show. "Any particular reason for that?"

Jackson looked back up from his laptop and grinned widely. "Abe and I don't think much of people who feel they need to slaughter defenceless creatures to prove the extent of their testosterone levels." His voice seemed almost smug, like he enjoyed the thought of throwing a wrench in the works of the best laid plans of hunters and their guides.

'You should tell him,' goaded the small voice in Ray's head, the one he used to call his voice of reason. 'He'd make a good partner.' Ray ignored it and just held out the completed forms. "Sounds good to me," he said with a laugh.

Ray stared at the pictures covering one wall of his small motel room. The second trip out had really been the jackpot in terms of information. Not only had he spotted the trail the poachers were following to get in and out of the area, but he had also overheard some chatter between Abe and two police officers that had told him what he needed to know about where the poachers holed up when they weren't out slaughtering helpless creatures. It was like he was on a roll, like everything was going his way, and he felt a thrill at the thought of giving those filthy poachers a taste of their own medicine.

He grabbed his notebook, scribbling a few last minute details. It was all pretty simple: hike out to the habitat site the poachers were attacking, scare them off, follow them back, destroy their camp. Easy.

"Kituko Safari?" The man's voice was harsh and Jackson jumped slightly; he hadn't heard anyone walk in. "Do you know what 'kituko' means, American?" Aggression was rolling off the big man in waves so, naturally, Jackson tilted his head and smiled.

"Yes I do. Freak." He may have been answering the question, but his tone of voice made it very clear he was insulting the man standing before him. Clearly expecting a different response, the three men standing behind the man Jackson had mentally named Brobdingnag, because Goliath was just too obvious, shifted unhappily.

"You are arrogant, American." He stepped forward, placing both hands on the table and leaning forward, bringing himself nearly nose to nose with Jackson. "Tell me, did you really think we would be unable to track you down? Did you think that we were too stupid?" He tilted his head, awaiting an answer.

Jackson's eyes flickered from Brobdingnag to the three men and back again before he answered, his smile becoming smaller and more reassuring than reassured. "I don't know what you mean," he said, lifting his hands in the universal gesture of peace and surrender. "Track me from what?" He leaned back as Brobdingnag's eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a snarl.

"From. Our. Camp!" He shoved the table aside as he shouted the last word, grabbing Jackson's collar in the same movement, yanking him to his feet. "Our camp that you destroyed!" He spun, dragging Jackson with him, before pushing the smaller man away and into the arms of his three comrades.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what camp? What was destroyed?" Jackson was shaken roughly by the men holding him as Brobdingnag approached, mouth still twisted and ugly.

"We had a deal lined up, American." Jackson had never heard the word sound so much like an insult before. "You cost me and my men millions!" He drove his fist into Jackson's stomach and Jackson, unprepared for the vicious blow, doubled up as much as he could with his arms still being held, struggling to catch his breath.

"I don't… don't..." he trailed off in a coughing fit that died down as a meaty hand tangled in his hair and jerked him upright.

"I know you don't have our money." Now Brobdingnag's voice was deathly quiet, hissing in Jackson's ear. "We are going to take what we are owed out of your hide."

The fingers in his hair kept Jackson upright as Brobdingnag punched him in the stomach again, this time following up with three hard blows to the left of Jackson's chest. Before he could catch his breath, Jackson was thrown to the floor, hitting the ground hard.

Brobdingnag crouched next to him, grabbing the back of Jackson's neck as the wounded man made an abortive attempt get his knees under him. "You owe us, American." He slammed Jackson's head into the wooden floor before standing again and turning to his men. "Time to collect." The four of them stood in a rough circle, watching as Jackson shook his head, trying to clear it. He got his hands under him and tried to push himself up but one of the men put his foot on Jackson's back and pushed down, hard. Jackson's arms gave out and his breath left him with an audible whoosh as he dropped back to the ground.

He would never know who landed the first kick, but he would always remember the pain that tore through his side. The men around him laughed so loudly he could barely even hear himself scream. The foot on his back lifted and stamped down again, another kick landed, this time to his right knee and Jackson tried to curl in on himself, to protect himself the only way he could. A vicious kick to the small of his back made his spine arch and his attackers took full advantage.

Jackson wrapped his arms around his head, hoping to shield his temples and jaw and one of the men, obviously not happy with this, bent and grabbed Jackson's shoulders, rolled him onto his back and then moved to straddle his hips. For just a moment Jackson felt nothing but relief that the beating had stopped. Then the man wrapped his hands around Jackson's throat and squeezed. He laughed as Jackson clawed at his fingers, then said something to his friends.

Another of the men, larger than even Brobdingnag, stepped around and knelt, his knees either side of Jackson's head. He grabbed Jackson's wrists and pulled them up, away from the hands that were squeezing so hard, choking the very life out of him. Just as he thought he was going to black out, the squeezing stopped. He gasped and coughed over the first few breaths, trying to simultaneously suck in enough air to stop his vision from swimming and shake off the men pinning him down. They just laughed, let him exhaust himself with his fruitless struggle, and then the smaller man slipped his hands around Jackson's throat again.

Jackson didn't understand much of what they were saying, thanks to Abe's continual refusals to teach his friend insults and curses, no matter how drunk Abe was, but Jackson understood the tone of their voices. He wasn't going to survive this.

As he strained his arms, unwilling to stop trying to fight back even now, he wondered vaguely if anyone would ever figure out why he had been targeted. His vision darkening again, heart straining to circulate oxygen that wasn't there, he hoped Abe wouldn't blame himself, wouldn't carry the guilt of losing another brother.

He didn't even notice when the hands left his throat and the beating started again.

Abe couldn't wait to get back to the base camp. His night in the town had been fun, it always was, but he was desperate to tell Jackson the news that was circulating on the gossip mill. A band of poachers had been thwarted on their hunt and then their camp had burned down around them. No official reports, obviously, but everyone who knew anyone seemed to know it would be months before the men involved could start their sick operation again.

Abe laughed again at the thought of a small bedraggled group of poachers hiking through the night to find the nearest shelter, not only bereft of their 'prizes,' but of their weapons, supplies, and even their clothes. He knew Jackson would get a kick out of the news too; he was fervent in his hatred of those who used man's weapons against animals who were powerless to stop them.

Shortly before the camp came into sight, Abe pressed down on the horn, knowing that Jackson was likely to be asleep in the sun somewhere and hoping to wake him. Topping the crest of the small hill brought the camp into view, and he spotted a truck parked by the building they affectionately called their 'office.' Abe grinned; tourists loved hearing about poachers being stopped.

But then a group of men came running from the office, leaping into the truck. Even over the distance, Abe could hear them yelling to each other. He watched in confusion as the truck sped away from the camp, until he caught sight of the logo on the back panel. Tusks framed by crosshairs. The same banner under which the town gossip said the poachers operated. A look of horror spread over Abe's face, and he pressed down on the accelerator, desperate to get to Jackson, terrified of what he was going to find.

As soon as he stopped the Jeep, Abe clambered out, struggling with the door handle, hands made clumsy by fear. "Jackson?" he shouted as loudly as he could, even as he ran to the doorway of the office, hoping to hear a response. "Jackson?" He froze at the scene that met his eyes. The table had been toppled, papers and bits of what was once a laptop were strewn about. And Jackson...

Jackson was sprawled on the floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He was barely recognizable as the man Abe thought of as a brother. His left eye was swollen shut; a cut just below it and another in his hairline were both bleeding freely. His lip was split in at least two places. Some of the fingers on his right hand looked to be broken and a bruise, vaguely the same shape as a boot heel, was already forming on the back of the hand. More bruises littered his neck, fingerprints burned by violence into the skin. Blood was pooling on the floor beneath him, but the worst thing, the thing that made Abe's stomach twist, was the choked, desperate gasping as Jackson struggled to breathe.

Cursing himself for leaving Jackson alone, Abe ran to the back room, begging for help before he even touched the radio's handset. The operator was calm and collected and managed to give Abe some advice before ending the call. Abe went back to Jackson knowing that he shouldn't be moved unless his breathing stopped, that he shouldn't be woken, but that if he woke up on his own, he should be kept awake.

By the time the helicopter landed, Jackson was starting to shift, and Abe was struggling to keep him still without causing him any more pain. It was with a guilty sense of relief that he stepped away from his friend and let the medics take his place. They talked over Jackson and made no attempt to enlighten Abe as to his condition until they were nearly ready to leave.

"There's no room in the copter," he was told. "You'll have to drive if you want to come with him."

Minutes later, Abe was speeding down the road, listening to the sound of the helicopter's blades beating the air as they faded into the distance. His hands were tight on the wheel and his blood was pounding. Mixing with the fear for a friend was an unhealthy amount of anger towards the people who had hurt him so badly. For the first time in a long time, Abe actually longed for the death of another human being.

Abe was waiting as patiently as he could, fiddling anxiously with the box on the table in front of him. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to buy Jackson a new laptop. But now, after four long weeks, he was finally being released from the hospital and Abe was terrified he had made the wrong choice.

"I should have gone for a cuddly toy," he groused to himself, tempted to hide the laptop and return it the first chance he got. But the sound of an engine stopped him short, and he ran outside to see Dr. Elizabeth's Jeep rolling to a stop. She didn't seem to notice him as she got out of the vehicle and started walking around to the passenger side door.

"Maybe I can help?" he offered as he stepped forward.

"Abe!" She was delighted to see him. "You can, actually. They gave Jackson some painkillers for the drive, and his legs have turned to spaghetti. I had to have two orderlies help me just to get him into the Jeep in the first place." She was still smiling as she spoke, and it soothed something in Abe to see her so relaxed.

For a few days, no one had seemed to be too sure if Jackson was even going to wake up again, let alone pull through. Even after the doctors told them they were 'cautiously optimistic,' it had been more days of endless waiting, nights of no sleep in their cramped hotel rooms, before they had been told Jackson had turned a corner and was being moved out of the intensive care ward.

And now he was back and looking at Abe through the open door with a grin that was brightening his entire face. "It's Abe!" His tone was one of delight, but the words were slightly slurred and Abe chuckled at his loopy friend. "Abe, you're back. It's been a really long time since you left. Was town that exciting?" Innocence was radiating off Jackson. Abe caught sight of Elizabeth laughing into her hand and wondered if she had managed to take any footage of the drive.

It took longer than they expected to get Jackson out of the Jeep, thanks to him continually trying to 'help' and occasionally insisting he didn't need any help because he wasn't "a... uh, thing. Ya know, little thing. Little soft thing. With legs. C'mon, ya know. Those little leg things."

Once he was finally lying down, Jackson quickly fell asleep, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to fill Abe in on the latest news.

"They caught them. Someone heard them in a bar, bragging about what they had done. Apparently they thought Jackson was the one who sabotaged their operation." Her voice conveyed her disbelief. "There's no way the courts can ignore what they did," she continued. "The risk of such bad press, such a threat to tourism? Those men are going to pay."

Abe nodded in grim satisfaction. It was little comfort really, when he thought about it, but hopefully it would be enough to bring Jackson some closure. And if he ever found out who was actually deserving of those poachers' fury... well, Abe wasn't above meting out some unofficial justice of his own. On his brother's behalf, of course.

Notes:

The observant among you will no doubt notice a theme running through my work. I skip between fandoms like child in a daisy field, but the whump follows me whither so ever I go. And, as before, this is due to a certain someone volun-telling me to write the Jackson whump that keeps screaming in my brain.

Oh, and the thing Jackson was trying to insist he wasn't but couldn't even put a name to? It was a baby :)


End file.
